The BEDMAS Conspiracy

by Deborah Sherman

  “Well, what about the following week?” I asked. I was desperate to have her in the band. She was awesome and a bit loopy—the perfect band member!

  “No, you don’t understand,” said Andrea. “After everything that happened with Jenny, I need a best friend I can trust. Frieda’s proven herself to be just as untrustworthy as Jenny. I don’t want to have anything to do with her again.”

  She handed us Frieda and started to button up her sweater.

  “Maybe I’ll take up the drums. The drums don’t leave you hanging out to dry during your biggest moment. Yeah, the drums seem trustworthy. Solid and dependable. Or maybe I’ll just buy a dog.” She picked up her bag and headed out the door.

  “Andrea, you forgot Frieda,” Daniela called after her.

  “Keep her,” said Andrea without turning around.

  Okay—so she was a lot loopy.

  Daniela shrugged, “She was good, really good. But I think we just dodged a crazy bullet there, Cuz.”

  I had to agree, though somewhat regretfully. Andrea and Frieda really wailed.

  Raz Keilberg, a new kid in grade seven, was next with his vintage bass guitar. It was a solid, if not spectacular, audition.

  “Not bad,” said Daniela.

  “But we need more than ‘not bad’ if we are going to win this thing,” I reminded Daniela. We already had one weak band member—me!

  A slew of unimpressive guitarists were next.

  “What do you think the chances are of Andrea forgiving Frieda?” asked Daniela.

  We looked at poor Frieda lying broken and lonely in the corner.

  “Don’t count on it,” I replied.

  It turned out that Edward Nojna was a crack accordion player.

  “Name any polka and I guarantee I can play it,” he said proudly.

  Farid Nazar was decent at keeping the beat on the recorder.

  “He’s worth keeping in mind,” I said to Daniela, who looked doubtful.

  “We might have to think outside the box,” I told her.

  Next up was Sludge Sludinsky. Sludge was a cool kid in the eighth grade. We were surprised to see him at our tryout. If there was a sticky situation at J.R. Wilcott, Sludge was usually in the middle of it. Toilet-papering the gym and placing stink bombs in the grade seven saxophones were two of his more memorable “extra-curricular activities.” He could usually be found lounging in the back row of detention.

  Recently, Sludge had wowed the whole school in the J.R. Wilcott production of Romeo and Juliet. Most people hadn’t expected him to know who Shakespeare was, let alone want to perform one of his famous plays. But not only did Sludge learn the play (in detention, of course), he really surprised everyone by giving a terrific performance. In fact, he was so good that Principal Losman let him miss detention once a week so he could join the drama club. He was a bit of a Wilcott celebrity.

  “Hey, it’s awesome that you’re here,” I said, trying to sound cool. “What do you play?”

  I don’t think he heard me. He was staring at Daniela and his face was frozen in a goofy grin.

  “Sludge, what instrument do you play?” I asked again.

  He continued to gaze goofily at Daniela. I wasn’t the only one who liked to daydream!

  “Do something!” she whispered to me. Her face was as red as her hair.

  I ran to the drum kit at the back of the garage and grabbed the cymbals. Their crashing noise jolted Sludge back to the real world. He turned his head to see where the clatter came from.

  “Awesome looking skins, bro!” he said when he saw my brother’s drum kit. “These are some sick tubs!” He took a seat. “What time do you want me to keep? Two-four? Six-eight?”

  Daniela frowned helplessly at me. We had no idea what he was talking about.

  I had to ad lib. “Your choice, Sludge. We just want to see what kind of skills you bring to the table… uh, dude,” I added, trying to sound cool again.

  Sludge twirled two drumsticks between his fingers. “One, two—one, two, three, four,” he bellowed before starting to play. His left arm provided a speedy boom as his right arm offered a thundering bop. He played fast, furiously, and fantastically. I found myself clapping along as he attacked the drums. After a final whoosh of thumps and thuds, he tossed his sticks into the air, catching one behind his back and the other in his teeth.

  Daniela and I were speechless. Sludge had to speak for us. “Will I get a call-back?”

  There was no need for a call-back.

  “You’re in!” Daniela told him. “Welcome to Sick on a Snow Day.”

  Sludge grinned. “Awesome! So who’s our axeman?”

  Axeman?

  “Who’s playing guitar for us?” explained Sludge.

  I really needed to bone up on my musical terms. “We’re still looking,” I told Sludge. “Andrea and Frieda broke up, so our axe person is undecided.”

  “Yeah, I saw Andrea heading into the dog pound. Do you mind if I sit in for the rest of the auditions?” he asked. “My dad has a garage band, so I know a little bit about this stuff.”

  Daniela and I happily said yes. Next up was Patrick Stoneman. He carefully took out his violin.

  “Great squeak box!” enthused Sludge.

  After Patrick came Amanda Tupper and her saxophone.

  “Wild! She can really work that popsicle stick!” laughed Sludge appreciatively.

  “Totally! One hundred percent!” Daniela and I agreed, pretending we knew what he was talking about.

  It was almost dinner time. Auditions were winding down and we were still searching for two people who could play the guitar.

  Sludge summed it up, “We gotta find some sidemen soon.”

  Last up were Beena and Meena Zellerpin. Identical twins, Meena and Beena were never far from each other. They had the same classes, ate at the same table, and had the same friends. They talked alike, walked alike, and ate alike—peanut butter and Swiss cheese sandwiches garnished with a dill pickle. They liked the same boys, hated the same food (pizza!) and finished each other’s sentences. The only way to tell them apart was by their clothes. They dressed alike, of course, but Beena was always in blue and Meena was always in mauve.

  “Blue. Starts with a B, just like Beena,” explained Beena.

  “Mauve. Starts with an M, just like Meena,” said Meena.

  Truthfully, most of J.R. Wilcott thought of them as one person—the Z’s.

  “Think they’ll share a guitar?” whispered Daniela when they walked into the room.

  Today they were dressed in polka-dotted skirts and fur-trimmed sweaters—Beena’s, blue, and Meena’s, mauve, of course.

  “I hope you don’t mind—” started Beena.

  “—if we hold our auditions together,” finished Meena.

  Beena was holding a teal bass and Meena had a purple electric guitar.

  “One, two—one, two, three, four,” they counted off together before starting to strum. They played cleanly, quickly, and in perfect unison. Together, they swayed from side to side. They stopped playing at exactly the same moment.

  “Do you guys mind if I beat the skins while you two do your thing?” Sludge asked the twins.

  “Not at all,” answered the Z’s.

  Beena’s bass vibrated smoothly against Meena’s slick guitar strokes as Sludge provided a steady beat. They sounded like they’d been practicing together for years, which in Beena’s and Meena’s case, was probably true.

  Daniela and I looked at each other. It appeared we had our band: Daniela Olafson belting out the tunes; Sludge pounding the drums; Beena Z on her blue bass; Meena Z beside her on a mauve axe (I was picking up a lot from Sludge!); and, finally, Adam Margols playing one or two chords on the piano.

  Sick on a Snow Day was set.

  My mom had made fried chicken for dinner. Usually, I’d devour three pieces before the rest of my family had even sat down at the table. But tonight I had bigger and better things on my mind.

  “Shmick on a Shmow Shay ish shmoing to s
hwin thish eashily!” I was too excited to swallow my baked potato.

  “Stop talking with your mouth full,” lectured my mother. “We can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  My older brother could. “You haven’t even had your first practice yet, and already you’re accepting the trophy,” laughed Josh. “That’s a lot of confidence for a guy who can only play two notes on the piano.”

  “Even I can play better than you, and I’m only seven,” said my little sister Abigail.

  “I might not be able to play well, but the resht of the shmand can,” I replied, dribbling ketchup down my chin.

  My cousin had better manners. She swallowed her food before joining in. “We’ve really got some good players. The Z’s are amazing! You’ve got to hear them.”

  “The Z’s,” said my father. “Aren’t they the identical twins who dress alike and talk alike?”

  “You know, Uncle Stephen, I thought all they could do was pick out their coordinating purple and blue outfits, but it turns out they’re amazing on their axes!”

  “Axes?” asked my mom worriedly.

  “We got Sludge playing the drums,” explained Daniela.

  “Yup, he pounds the skins for Sick on a Snow Day,” I said as I tried to clean ketchup off the front of my shirt.

  “Ah, that eighth-grade boy who likes Shakespeare and pulling fire alarms,” said my mom, nodding her head.

  “Well, I don’t like the name, Sick on a Snow Day. It’s stupid,” said Abigail. I could always count on her to speak her mind whether I liked it or not.

  “Now that you mention it,” started Josh, “it does lack a bit of pizzazz. Who came up with it?”

  My mom knew how hard I’d worked at coming up with the perfect name. “I like it,” she said. “Although I also like the name, Studying for the Big Geometry Test. No matter what you call your band, if you want to stay in it, there had better be an improvement in your marks, Adam.”

  My heart sank. I knew what my mom meant. I needed to prepare for tomorrow’s big test. After dinner I tried, as my parents like to say, to buckle down and study. I really did! But it was impossible to concentrate on numbers when we had just assembled such a cool band. When it came to math, it was easier to think of music and just hope for the best tomorrow.

  I realized how much trouble I was in when I woke up the next morning.

  "I’m so glad I learned the formulas Sunday night,” said Daniela at the breakfast table. “I was too excited to concentrate on anything serious last night.”

  “Formulas?” I asked, in between bites of cereal.

  “You didn’t bother learning the formulas for today’s test?” she asked incredulously. “How will you know how to find the surface area of a triangle or the volume of a sphere? How are you going to pass the test, Adam?”

  She paused for a second. “Your dad is going to kill you!” she added, in case she hadn’t made her point.

  Panicking, I raced up to my room. I grabbed my math book, found chapter eleven and jotted down a few formulas on a small Post-It note. Hopefully I could learn them on the ride to school.

  Unfortunately, Mr. Papernick was also my homeroom teacher. That meant I started every day off with mathematics. He was waiting for us with what looked to be a thick stack of papers. Nervously, I took my seat. I took out the little square of paper and scanned it quickly. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the formulas. Nothing. Again I looked at the paper and closed my eyes. Nada. Not one number.

  Concentrating on school had always been a problem for me. But I had never considered cheating. Until now. The stakes were high. It was important I pass this test—more than important. If I wanted to be in the talent show, I needed to get a passing grade and keep my parents off my back. I promised myself it would only be a one-time thing. Just a few formulas that I would definitely learn at home tonight.

  I stuck the Post-It up my sleeve. It was perfectly hidden. Mr. Papernick started to hand out the test. Allan Alter scanned the test and let out a depressed sigh. Jonathan Azam looked at the first page and put his head down on his desk. I was desperate! Just this once, I told myself again. I would make it up by doing extra equations for the next three weeks. Mr. Papernick handed Andrea Hackenpack the test. Even straight-A student Andrea looked worried. I needed my cheat sheet!

  I made a deal with myself. I would use the cheat sheet today, learn all of the formulas tonight, and then take the test again on the weekend. And do extra homework for the next three weeks. It seemed like a good deal. It would make up for the cheating, I told myself.

  “Here you go, Mr. Laken,” said Mr. Papernick as he handed his test to Sam Laken.

  He was getting closer and closer to handing a test to Mr. Adam Margols. Me—a cheater. A cheater who was starting to sweat buckets. Beads of perspiration dripped down my neck. I wiped away the droplets. My hands were starting to tremble. Between the sweaty palms and the shaking, it became increasingly hard to grip my pencil.

  Mr. Papernick headed down my row. “Good luck, Ms. Mackie,” he said as he gave Darcy Mackie the test.

  In a few seconds, I would have my test and I would cheat my way to a passing grade. My pencil slipped from my sweaty grip and rolled on the floor. I reached down to pick it up. But my sweaty, shaking fingers made it hard to grasp. After what felt like an eternity, I finally managed to pick it up. But, by the time I did, I realized I couldn’t go through with my plan. I may have been a daydreamer who couldn’t add, but I wasn’t a cheater. I would just have to fail the test and deal with my parents.

  I bolted from my seat and headed to the garbage can. The illicit sticky note was giving me a big, psychic paper cut. I just wanted to get rid of it. I was ready to take the test and get a good old-fashioned F. My parents would be angry but I’d promise to do extra math every night—perhaps even get a tutor. Maybe I could take a re-test next week.

  My hands were still wet with perspiration. Just three steps away from the garbage pail...

  “Hey,” said a squeaky voice. It was Eldrick Hooperberg. “You dropped something, Adam.”

  Eldrick leaned over and picked up the little yellow piece of paper which had somehow unglued itself from inside my sleeve and slipped to the floor. He waved it above his head, formulas flashing for all to see. Panicking, I looked Eldrick directly in the eye, hoping he’d realize he should clam up. He completely ignored my signal.

  Mr. Papernick wasted no time swooping in. “Well, well—what have we here? I’ll take that, Mr. Hoopenbaum.”

  “Hooperberg,” corrected Eldrick weakly.

  “It appears we have ourselves a cheat sheet, Mr. Margols.” Mr. Papernick frowned as he studied it. “Though I’m not sure if this sorry attempt would have improved your chances of getting through this test.”

  “But...I...aargh.” I tried to protest, but my voice seemed to have stopped working. I was in big trouble. At best, I would have to set up camp in detention. At worst, I would be grounded forever. And how could I be in a band if I could never leave my room? There was a good chance that my dream of winning Wilcott’s Got Talent was over.

  Why, oh why, couldn’t Eldrick Hooperberg have kept his mouth shut? A brainiac like Eldrick would have known exactly what that piece of paper was. He’d brought me down—on purpose—and I was never going to forgive him! My eyes shot daggers at him as Mr. Papernick sent me away to the office.

  My day quickly went from bad to worse. First, I had to sit through a lecture by Principal Losman. Then I had to write the test in the office and wait for Mr. Papernick. When he came at recess, he gave me his own lecture. Two lectures were not ideal, but I could have lived with it if it was my full punishment. It was not. Mr. Papernick concluded his speech with the seven words no kid ever wants to hear: I’ll be speaking to your parents tonight. He didn’t look very happy.

  For the rest of the day, I wavered back and forth on cancelling band practice. Sweat trickled down my forehead every time I imagined Mr. Papernick’s phone call—and my parents’ reaction! In the e
nd, I decided to hold practice. Most likely I’d be saying goodbye to a lot of privileges for a very long time. There was no sense starting my grounding early. Although it was hard, I tried to put my desperate situation out of my head and concentrate on the band.

  “Your parents are going to be furious when they hear about this,” said Daniela as we walked home.

  “I feel like barfing just thinking about it,” I confided.

  “So do I—on your behalf,” said my cousin.

  Luckily, the rest of the band quickly showed up for practice and cut short our queasiness.

  “I really don’t like the name Sick on a Snow Day,” said Beena as she plugged in her teal bass.

  “Me neither,” said Meena as she tuned her mauve guitar.

  “Since we brought it up,” said Sludge, “I’m not wild about it either. It lacks a certain coolness factor. What does it mean, anyway?”

  I tried to dazzle Beena, Meena, and Sludge with the idea behind our name.

  “Something gross combined with something cool,” repeated Sludge when I finished my explanation. He looked like he was thinking it over. “Have you considered Nasty Kittens?”

  The twins still weren’t convinced either, but I didn’t want to waste valuable time discussing our name. “Let’s call it a ‘working name’ for now. If someone comes up with something better, we’ll definitely consider it,” I suggested.

  The twins agreed. It was time to concentrate on the music. Daniela handed out some sheet music she had downloaded off the internet. We took on the first song—a popular one on the radio—and sounded pretty good!

  “I think it’s important that we have some original music,” I told everyone after practice as we sat in the garage, drinking Cokes and munching on snacks.

  “Totally, bro,” agreed Sludge. “Ed Nojna told me the Flying Perogies are writing an original rock opera.

  That sounded hard to top.

  “We Wuz Framed have choreographed an interpretive dance where they fight against Principal Losman’s punishment for not doing your homework,” said Beena.

  “Totally true,” confirmed Meena. “They literally break-dance their way out of detention.”